Looking Back
by ParadigmShifter
Summary: Xander looks back on his Life After Death...


Disclaimer: Joss, WB, UPN et al. own Buffy. I don't. (You know, this disclaimer lark is getting really boring. Does ANYONE actually think I might own these? Would I be at university if I did? No, I would be sitting in an office with my only worry being how much my latest plot idea will piss off the fans…)

Title: Looking Back

Author: Paradigm Shifter

Feedback: YES! For the love of any non-corporeal-über-being YES!

Rating: I don't know. This definitely isn't R, but I'm not even sure if it requires PG-13. It might even be G. That has to be a first for me. But, to be safe, it's gonna be PG-13.

Notes: This is meant to be a one shot. I have enough to work on right now without another story to do. In all truth, I'm not sure why I wrote this…

*

_Y'know, death really sucks. It wasn't quite what I thought it would be, and because of that, I find myself trying to become what I was before. Lots of great philosophers and thinkers have tried to imagine death, and if they were still breathing, maybe I could give them a firsthand view. Maybe also let them experience it for themselves._

_But no._

_They're all dead, and not my sort of dead, I'm talking the dead that comes when your bones have become bits of calcareous waste in a rotting wooden box. Or scattered ashes in the case of some of the more eccentric ones. Whichever one, I think it was Sartre, although it might have been Flaubert or even Camus for that matter, but anyway, whoever said 'hell is being locked forever in a room with your friends' never saw the passage of centuries. Never saw the inexorable creeping of the eons. Then he would **really** know what hell was. Seeing those you care about die, and because of what you have become, unable to comfort them._

_That, my friends, is what death is all about._

The man sighed, and slammed the book he was writing in shut violently. The pen, a present from the one who created him, albeit indirectly, gripped tight in his hand, and it suddenly became a weigh on his soul he did not want. And so, to vent the inevitable anger, the pen flew across the room to embed itself in the old dartboard on the back of the door.

Sighing again, this time at his actions, the man stood up from his chair at the desk, wooden legs grinding on the polished floor of the room, and walked over to the dartboard. Looking with interest at the pen, he took a marker and drew a fine line where the pen entered the board. With that, he withdrew it like it was a hot knife in a butter dish.

Looking at the tip, he saw that better than two inches had pierced the ancient oak of the door before stopping. Smiling to himself, as there was no one else there, he slowly returned to his chair and began to write once more.

This story must start somewhere, as inevitably all stories do. But I find myself at a loss on how to begin. I suppose the old ways are best, still. Shall I begin like a famous writer before, 'I was born, I grew up,' or shall I use another method? Perhaps I could say how beautiful a child I had been. Both would be true, but, to a degree, both would also be falsehood.

Let us start the old way then…

I was born in the year of Our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Eighty. And that 'year of Our Lord' is not necessarily proof that I follow a given religion. It is merely a memory from a time that hurt less, and gave some degree of comfort. The summer, in fact, although I remember little of my first few formative years except that my parents never fought then. No, that came later. I had regular visits from family, and aunts and uncles who spoilt me mercilessly. Grandparents came when they could, but both pairs lived far away, and could not often come. But when they did… oh, when they did… it was like a little Christmas in the middle of the year!

Then the difficulties began. My father quit his job because of ethics he held to. It was a valid reason, but the company did not like to loose such a valuable employee. They kept offering him more and more to return, and when he continued to refuse; they made sure, through unofficial channels, that he would never get a job again. For a short time, it was touch and go on whether he would spend his life in jail, after a set up. Fortunately, however, a fellow worker vouched for him, and that was enough. But nevertheless, he could not get a job. He had been a lawyer.

So, to cure that, he began to drink. Which in turn, turned to violence when he was so drunk he did not know what he was doing. The first time he woke up sober after beating up my mother and me, he asked us what had happened. When told, it forced him deeper into the pit of alcoholism that he had entered. Then, because of the loss of the man she loved, my mother joined him in that pit.

Therefore, the rest of my life was spent dodging fists and feet, glasses and bottles, as my parents drunkenly took life out on anything that moved. The first thing was the cat, which bled to death after getting shattered glass in its paws. Then the target became me…

The man shook his head, and crossed out a large section. Then he returned to writing.

I am sorry, I mean this not to be depressing. But in pouring out my life, justifying my existence and its outcomes to a piece of paper, the hurt and pain of life all flows out in the ink, like it was somehow a primordial substance of which my soul was forged.

A thought just struck me. If any of those I had known in life ever read this, they will wonder how I know so many big words. To those, I say; you will be surprised what is hidden behind a mask if you do not wish to show it…

To return to the topic: during the early years of that time, I met the one who would keep me sane through all of my childhood, a red-head who was impossibly shy, and I, being my brash self at the time, set it upon my shoulders to make her come out of her shell. In the process, I made another friend, a boy who had a name that invoked fear hundreds of years ago, but did little more than make the more cruel kids call him a girl. Even still, I view the name as a girls', but as a badge of Honour on a boy. I named my first child after him. But I digress.

Time rolled slowly on, and in the slumbering heart of a child, things were born. The next decade I spent with those two, aware I could become one of the movers and the shakers in Sunnydale's clique if I but chose. I did not choose such as that. Friendship and honesty were more valuable to me than any power or influence being the chosen of 'Daddy's Princess' could garner me. One of my first acts of unselfishness.

The man pounded the desk with his unoccupied fist, and swept it past a pile of papers he had finished before, scattering them to the floor and sending an ashtray flying into the wall. The noise seemed to summon the maid, because she soon entered through the door, and clucked as she looked at the mess made. The man twisted his face at her and snarled one word, "Leave." Not spoken with anger or violence, just an absolute order. The maid, unspeaking, bowed and pulled the door shut behind her.

Unselfishness? Who am I kidding? Everything I ever did was designed to benefit me. The fact that it aided others in the mean time was merely a pleasant bonus.

But soon enough, even that was taken from me. I could no longer soothe my longing for acceptance, created by my careless parents and fostered by a world too unkind for those I chose to love. My need for purpose. When she came, she took that away.

Certainly, over the next few years, I had some highlights, and even some events that I look back at fondly, remembering better times and better days. But for every event I remember fondly, there are two I remember with regret.

And as with so many things with me, the true story begins with an ending. My… ending…

Pulling a face, the man laid the pen gently down and leaned back, thinking of what had happened that night, and how it had changed him forever. After a moment of reflection, he picked up the pen once more and resumed writing.

None of my friends have ever seen me again, although I stayed around for a while, a dark Guardian Angel, in human form. None of them knew what happened. And after a while, the general consensus was that I had run away, too fearful of what I spent my life fighting.

They did not know; I had become what I had fought. In a way. But in another, I was a caterpillar that had turned into a butterfly. A big, ugly and lethally strong butterfly, but the comparison could be made…

Isn't life ironic when it wants to be?

*

The page was carefully lifted from the pile, and put inside a drawer in the desk. When the next page was ready for use, the man leaned down once more.

I had been patrolling with Buffy that evening. It seemed almost as if the vampires knew I would be leaving soon, and that they all wanted to have a go while I was still a valid target. For soon, I would not be any longer.

Every chance encounter we had, the vampires attacked me, with an almost careless abandon. They ignored Buffy almost totally. That, I am afraid, is the only reason I was still alive after that patrol. While they were busy trying to kill me, Buffy staked them without a second thought. 

It was the sort of single mindedness that I wished Buffy would have had when trying to end Angelus' rein of terror. 

But regardless of that, they were pretty much queuing up to get staked.

When we finally got back to the relative safety of the Library, Buffy launched into my apparent newfound demon-magnetism. When Giles heard this, he voiced the question, "Have you been casting spells again?"

That got everyone started. Willow started a tirade about sensible use of magic. Damn, that girl should have taken her own advice. 'Cause after a few years, she certainly wasn't using magic responsibly. Oz sat silent throughout it all, while Buffy and Giles roasted me from one side and Cordelia the other. 

I hated my friends at that moment. They would not believe that something was going on, and I had nothing, NOTHING, to do with it. Finally, after one accusation too many, I ran out of the Library, and headed home. None of the others followed me. Not Buffy, not that I really expected her to. Not Cordelia, my so-called girlfriend. Not even Willow, my best friend since… well, ever.

*

The next page was lifted. He wanted to start the next part on a fresh page. To make it stand out.

That night, I died.

It wasn't a spectacular death; it wasn't a hero's death. I was jumped, and drained before I even really knew what was going on. Turns out, I was vamped by one of the ex-college students. A few years older than me, he had been turned, and we never knew anything about it. He was still in his funeral gear, and boy, was he hungry.

I was drained inside a few seconds, but the strange thing is, I don't remember him feeding me. That is odd, isn't it?

I was killed, and I rose as… something. Not truly a vampire, and why? I am not sure…

I still, even after all these years, do not truly know what I am, or how I came to be.

But to those that cross me, they know what and who I am.

That in itself is a frightening thought.

And yet…

Maybe after all of these years, it is time to go home…

Will it still be the place I left behind?

Will memories hold sway over me once more if I return?

I can do nothing but hope…

*


End file.
